


Underlying Architecture

by Blue_Five



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bones AU, FBI Agent Derek Hale, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 03:52:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6549448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Five/pseuds/Blue_Five
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remains are discovered in Arlington Cemetary.  FBI Special Agent and Alpha Derek Hale has to figure out who the body used to be and what happened.  Dr. Stiles Stilinski is an Omega and a brilliant anthropologist capable of doing just that with his equally brilliant team at the Jeffersonian.</p><p>Unfortunately, they can't stand each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, yeah. This happened. I really shouldn't binge watch 'Bones' when I'm depressed. It gives me ideas. And my other works are getting light responses so I thought maybe changing it up would help. If you're a fan of the show, know that I'm going to follow the storyline more or less faithfully but some things have to change to fit my effort. And I made it A/B/O because ... well, just because I can and I happen to be addicted to the trope. Be kind.

Jackson Whittemore growls, staring at the dancing screens on the arrivals board. He knows he’s running late picking up his best friend from the airport and the glitching monitor isn’t helping his mood any at all.  Turning, Jackson strides over to a nearby help kiosk and addresses the man there – a Beta wishing he was an Alpha if Jackson’s any judge of character or wardrobe.  He takes in the thin little man’s sweater vest and light blue dress shirt with a frown of distaste.  Still, Jackson needs to find out whether or not the flight from Guatemala has disembarked so he clears his throat to ask politely.

Without looking up from his terminal, the Alpha wanna-be holds up his index finger. Jackson’s blue-green eyes narrow and he takes a deep breath.  He’s an unbonded Omega and used to being disdained by the other designations.  It comes with the territory.  He plasters a polite smile on his face and tries again.

“Sir …”

Two fingers sail into Jackson’s vision with no eye contact from the man who continues to tap away on his keyboard.

Jackson was raised to believe that he is more than his designation and he’s lived by that his entire life. He’s intelligent and more than capable of holding his own with some of the most brilliant minds in the country if not the world.  Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he’s _also_ well-aware that his body is his best asset in a world that prizes beauty above brains … at least where Omegas are concerned.  In one smooth move, Jackson pulls his t-shirt over his head, whips it past the clerk’s face before flipping it casually over one shoulder.  Jackson smirks at the now-gaping Beta.  He knows his smooth chest, luscious scent and perked nipples are an Alpha’s wet dream.  Jackson figures he’s probably fueled the idiot’s private-time fantasies for years to come.

“Hey there – now that I have your attention,” Jackson says easily.

“Oh my gods, _please_ tell me you tried your words first!”

Jackson spins on his heel with a wide grin and arms stretched wide. “ _Dude!_ ”

Jackson’s best friend, Dr. M.S. Stilinski, stands behind him dressed in what Jackson fondly refers to as ‘Indiana Jones chic’ – khaki pants, khaki vest, white Henley, and sturdy hiking boots. He holds an OD green duffel bag over one shoulder and his omnipresent knapsack is slung across his lean body.  Jackson knows he’s hot and he makes the most of it without shame.  Stilinski, however, knows he’s good-looking but for him it’s just a simple fact of life and nothing to get worked up about.  His amber eyes flash with humor under shaggy locks that frame an angular face currently covered with a ragged beard.  He’s an Omega like Jackson but that simple designation will _never_ do justice to his best friend.

“Ugh, we have to find you a decent razor as quickly as possible,” Jackson complains, running his hand over the other man’s face.

Stilinski snorts. “It’s good to see you too, Jax.”

“So?” Jackson asks as they head for the doors leading to the parking garages. “Are you exhausted?  Was Guatemala awful?  Horribly backward?”

“And yet,” Stilinski smiles. “I was never reduced to showing off my body for information.”

“Show it off for any _fun_ reasons?” Jackson asks.

“Jax, I was literally neck-deep in a mass grave. Not romantic in the least.”

Jackson sighs and shrugs. “I could have told you diving headfirst into a pit of cadavers was no way to deal with a messy breakup.”

Stilinski rolls his eyes. “Jax, nothing Pete or I _ever_ did could have been construed as ‘messy’.”

Jackson laughs. “Then, babe, you were _not_ doing it right.” Jackson skids to a halt when he realizes that the doctor has dropped his bags and turned to face off with an Alpha in a suit that tops him by at least a head.

“Sir, why are you following us?” Stilinski asks, never breaking eye contact with the man.

Instead of answering, the man grabs hold of the Omega’s arm. Jackson grimaces because he knows what his friend is capable of and he gives a resigned sigh a minute later when Stilinski demonstrates his hand-to-hand combat skills.  The Alpha lies on the floor groaning with his arm twisted behind him while airport security guards surround them with drawn weapons.

“ _He_ attacked _me_!” Stilinski snaps at the guards.

“I’m Homeland Security!”

Jackson groans and puts his hands up. Stilinski releases the Alpha and steps back, doing the same.  The man gets to his feet slowly, favoring his arm and holds out his hand. 

“Hand over the bag.”

Dr. Stilinski rolls his eyes so hard Jackson fears they will simply fall back into his friend’s skull … a fact he’s mentioned before and had it explained in excruciating detail how that simply could never happen. Stilinski grabs his knapsack and hands it to the man who opens it and finds a skull staring back at him.  Jackson does his own eye-rolling.

“Boo.”

The Alpha drops the bag, startled and then growls at Dr. Stilinski. “Follow me.”

* * *

“Look, you’ve got my credentials in front of you. I’ve been in Guatemala for two months identifying the victims of genocide … including him,” he says tiredly, indicating the skull.

The Alpha looks at the young man. “Most people in this situation … what they do is sweat it.”

Stilinski sighs. “Guatemala … genocide … how are _you_ scary after that?”

“You know who doesn’t sweat it? Sociopaths.”

“I’m not a sociopath. I’m an anthropologist with the Jeffersonian.”

The Alpha grunts. “Who works for the FBI. … which I might believe if you had an ID that did more than check out library books.” He leans closer to the doctor.  “You’re illegally transporting human remains and you assaulted an agent of Homeland Security.”

Dr. Stilinski tries to look apologetic. “Look, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in front of your friends but next time you should identify yourself before putting your hands on me.” A very particular scent crosses his awareness and he turns, his face suddenly anything but apologetic.  “What are _you_ doing here?”

The man that steps into the room is tall with dark hair and sharp green eyes. He is the epitome of an Alpha.  He wears a neat suit with a neat haircut and a neat beard.  Nothing is out of place.  His expression is impassive as he walks forward with his badge held up.

“F.B.I. Special Agent Derek Hale, Major Crime Investigation, D.C.,” he says quietly. “Stiles identifies bodies for us.”

“ _Don’t_ call me ‘Stiles’!” Dr. Stilinski snaps. “And I do more than identify.”

Derek nods, sliding a hardback novel across the table to the other agent. “He also writes books.”

The Alpha looks down at the jacket to see a cleaned up picture of the Omega staring back at him with a pleasant smile and a skull resting on one shoulder. He sighs.

“’Stiles’?”

“His middle name – _you_ wanna try pronouncing that first one?” Derek explains with a smile.

The Homeland agent chuckles. “Fine.  He’s all yours.”

“Great,” Agent Hale says, looking at Stiles. “Let’s grab your skull and go.”

Stiles stands up, suddenly defensive. “What?  That’s it?  ‘He’s free to go’?  Why did you stop me?  Because if you detained me for being an unescorted Omega, I’ll --” Stiles frowns at the Homeland Security agent.  He clenches his jaw and rounds on Derek.  “You set me up!  You put in a ‘hold for questioning’ on me!”

Stiles picks up his skull and knapsack before stalking out of the room. Derek sighs, shakes hands with his friend and follows the Omega he is convinced is destined to make his life a living hell.


	2. Chapter 2

“That’s the best you could do?” Stiles sneers, crossing his arms over his chest. “Having Homeland Security snatch me so you could stage a fake rescue?”

Derek smirks. “At least I picked you up at the airport.”  When Stiles simply glares at him, Derek sighs at the Omega.  “Look, I went through appropriate channels but your assistant there?  She stonewalled me.”

“That’s because after the last case, I told Malia to never, ever put you through. She’s a good assistant,” Stiles says smugly.

“Look, a decomposed corpse was found this morning at Arlington National Cemetery –“

Stiles snorts. “Arlington National Cemetery is _full_ of decomposed corpses.  It’s a _cemetery_.”

“This one is _your_ type of corpse.  It wasn’t in a casket,” Derek elaborates, his jaw aching from how hard he’s fighting not to growl.

Stiles’ nose wrinkles and he hits the button to roll down his window. “Ugh, _Alphas._ Your attempt to intimidate me by increasing your aggression scent won’t work.  Drive one more block and I _will_ yell ‘kidnap’ out the window.”

“Come on, Stiles,” Derek pleads. “I’m trying to mend fences here.”

“Pull. Over.”

The amber gaze brooks no dissension and Derek gets a strong spike of pissed off Omega. He finds that it doesn’t make him angry the way it should; it’s so strong, it should worry Stiles that it will trigger Derek’s instinct to dominate and force him to submit.  Instead, it makes him feel almost unhappy that it caused this reaction and he wants to make it better.  He pulls to the curb.  Stiles jumps out of the vehicle before it’s even in park.  With an annoyed grumble, Derek gets out and runs to catch up to the quickly walking Omega.

“Could we maybe skip this part?” Derek calls out.

“I find you very condescending,” Stiles replies over his shoulder.

“Me? I’m not the one who’s gotta mention he’s got a doctorate every five minutes,” Derek retorts.

Stiles pirouettes smoothly and walks backwards. “I _am_ the one with the doctorate.”

Derek swallows the lump in his throat as Stiles spins on his heel to keep walking. The Omega moves like he’s been a dancer all his life – the long arms and legs give him a grace that Derek’s Alpha can’t quite ignore.  If it weren’t for their constant inability to avoid butting heads, Derek knows he’d be courting this man in a heartbeat.  Instead, he’s forced to defend his slighted honor.

“Well _I’m_ the one with the badge and the gun!” Derek says, knowing it sounds lame even as he says it.  “You know, you’re not the only forensic anthropologist in town.”

“Yes I am,” Stiles chuckles. “The next best one is in Montreal. _Parlez-vous Francais_?”

Derek groans and stops. “What’s it going to take?”

Stiles smiles and turns around to regard the Alpha. His smile hides how his stomach ties itself in knots when he looks at Special Agent Derek Hale.  Stiles _hates_ not being able to define the emotions that proximity to the Alpha creates.  He understands the physical attraction.  Hell, he kissed the man on their last case but it’s more than just simple sexual compatibility.  Derek makes him _feel_ when his entire life has been dedicated to _not_ being ruled by emotion.  He’s struggled his entire life to overcome society’s expectations of his designation and the Alpha standing in front of him is a threat to many years of careful avoidance.  Still, there is the obvious _challenge_ in accepting this request.  Stiles is nothing if not competitive, even with himself.  He frowns thoughtfully before replying to Derek’s request.

“Full participation in the case,” the Omega says firmly.

“Fine,” Derek agrees.

“Everything. Not just lab work.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “You want to spit on it?  We’re Scully and Mulder.”

Stiles frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s an olive branch. Will you get back in the car?”

Stiles nods and Derek feels tension leak out of his shoulders. Stiles Stilinski is probably _the_ most stubborn human being he’s ever met in his life.  He challenges everything and his mouth has exactly zero filter.  He antagonizes nearly everyone he meets and while he drives Derek nuts, the Alpha suspects that Stiles also has a great depth to him.  Jackson, Stiles’ best friend, is viciously protective of his fellow Omega which only tells Derek that there’s more to the young man than he shows the world.  It’s a challenge which Derek thinks he will thoroughly enjoy … or he’ll eat his gun in the effort.  Still, God knows he happens to _really_ like the way the whiskey-gold eyes gleam when Stiles is focused on discovering truth.  And the way he chews on his lower lip when he’s thinking … it makes the Alpha wonder how Stiles’ kiss tastes.  Derek sighs inwardly.  He’s screwed.

* * *

As they cross the plots at Arlington, Stiles’ brain is already cataloging information. “What’s the context of the find?”

“Routine landscaping. Dropped the level of the pond and one of the workmen thought he saw something,” Derek explains.

Stiles smiles when he sees a shapely young Beta woman climbing out of the Jeffersonian’s mobile lab. Her hair is unevenly cropped and her clothes are rumpled but none of that matters – she’s one of the smartest individuals Stiles knows.  Stiles is fond of Malia Tate – she’s brilliant but her casual social skills are nearly as poor as his own.  Although if he’s honest, Stiles doesn’t understand why everyone always wants him to deal in meaningless chatter and distracting data that means nothing to him.  He notices that Agent Hale is studiously ignoring Malia’s attempts to converse.  He offers a comment, hoping Derek just doesn’t remember her face.

“Agent Hale, you remember my assistant, Malia Tate?”

“Yep.”

The curt response tells Stiles that Derek’s irritation at Malia’s refusal to help him earlier is going to color their interactions for the day. He decides to make use of the woman’s skills elsewhere.

“Malia, I need water samples and temperature readings from the pond.”

Malia nods and heads toward the water with a faint eye roll at the agent. “Right away, Dr. Stilinski.”

Derek mutters. “Typical squint.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Stiles says.

“Cops get stuck; we bring in people like you. You know … squints,” Derek narrows his eyes to demonstrate.  “You squint at things when you’re thinking.”

“Oh … so a squint is someone with a very high IQ and basic reasoning skills?” Stiles retorts.

He shoves his bag into Derek’s hands while he climbs into the boat that will take them out to where the landscaper ‘saw something’. He hates it when Derek acts as though he and people like him are odd creatures to be humored and pitied. 

It’s a short trip to the location on the pond and after a few minutes of studying the cameras images, Stiles sighs. “Alright, yes.  This is a crime scene.”

* * *

Bones are beautiful. Stiles knows no other word to accurately describe the clean, elegant structures that exist within every human on the planet.  They support, move, protect, and heal the flesh.  Bones offer up their secrets reluctantly sometimes, but the truth they tell is incontrovertible.  Stiles loves them because they are like hidden archivists, collecting all the information about a person’s life and storing it away to be later read by someone like him who knows their language.  He reads bones as others read words on a page and each story is different and fascinating. 

Malia’s camera flashes and Stiles surfaces slowly from his thoughts. He begins to audibly summarize what he’s observing, knowing Derek will be listening.

“The remains are wrapped in four-mil flat-poly construction sheeting …”

“PVC coated chicken wire,” Malia offers as she frames another shot.

Stiles nods. He pulls up the sheet to examine what else was in the shroud.  “Weighted … that’s why the body didn’t surface during decomposition.  The skeleton is complete but the skull is in fragments.”

Derek’s voice breaks in, smooth and even. If Stiles had to guess, the Alpha is in his ‘FBI brain’ which is fine with him.  Business is easier than emotion.

“What can you tell me?”

“Not much,” Stiles offers distractedly. “She was a young woman, probably between 18 and 22, approximately 5’3”, race unknown, designation unknown, delicate features.”

Derek pulls out a small group of index cards and makes quick notes. “That’s all?”

“Tennis player,” Stiles offers after a moment of consideration.

“What? How do you get ‘pretty tennis player’ out of that yuck?” Derek asks, looking at the slimy mess before him.

“Epiphysis fusion gives age, pelvic bone shape gives sex,” Malia says.

Stiles points. “Bursitis in the shoulder.  Somebody this young, it must be an athletic injury.”

“When did she die?”

Stiles shrugs. “No clue.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, wait until our bug and slime guy takes a look,” Malia snaps, taking another shot.

“No clothing,” Stiles continues.

Derek hums. “In my line of work, no clothing means sex crime usually.”

Stiles tilts his head as if to consider this but shakes it a moment later. “In _my_ line of work, it can mean the victim favored natural fibers.”

Malia walks behind Derek, smugly offering, “For example, your suit will outlast your bones by _decades_.”

“Collect silt, three meter radius to a depth of 10 centimeters. Send the sheeting and wire to the FBI, we’ll take the rest.”

Derek purses his lips. He acts put-upon but inside his Alpha is thrilling a bit to be able to bark orders on Stiles’ behalf.  It’s a very confusing feeling but not one that bothers him much.  He mentally shakes his head.  Oh yes … he’s _completely_ screwed.

* * *

Stiles looks down at the victim now moved onto a table in the lab. The trip back to the Jeffersonian was quiet and for that, Stiles is grateful.  Agent Derek Hale causes enough confusion in Stiles’ life on a good day and he needs to focus.  The anxiety that has followed him since being detained by Homeland Security slowly leaves Stiles as he moves in the clean, sterile environment.  Here, he is not an Omega but a world-renowned scientist worthy of respect and awe.  Here, he is in control and he can focus on the task at hand just the way he prefers without handsome Alphas distracting him.

“Dr. Parrish, what are your findings?”

Jordan Parrish clears his throat and looks up from the body. He’s an entomologist, botanist and mineralogist with a strange penchant for conspiracy theories that Stiles can’t understand but indulges because Jordan is brilliant in all of his fields.  After Jackson, Jordan is one of the most ‘normal’ individuals on Stiles’ team, keeping up with popular culture and capable of carrying on the inane small talk Stiles despises.  He’s an Alpha but never took issue with working for an Omega.  He stated during his interview that it made no sense to him to discount an entire segment of the population solely based upon their biological designation.  Stiles smiles, remembering how Jordan had _also_ offered his Alpha knot for any or all of the Omega’s heats.  It had been phrased carefully and politely, but the intent had been quite clear.  Stiles had declined just as politely but only because Stiles prefers to keep intimacy reserved for individuals outside of work.  Jordan’s pleasing physical aesthetics – excellent health, musculature, blonde hair and hazel-green eyes – did cause Stiles to pause before making his decision.

“The pond is not only warm and teeming with microbes which accelerated decomposition,” Jordan begins. “It also houses black carp and koi which fed on the body.”

Jackson frowns at the smelly decomposing remains. “Well, if no one else is going to say it, I say ‘Yuck.’”

Jordan’s mouth quirks in amusement before continuing. “I’ve got three larval stages of trichoptera, chironimidae …”

“Get to the point, Jordan,” Stiles urges.

The scientist looks at him directly. “The body was in the pond one winter and two summers.”

“So spring before last?

Jordan nods and then goes off in a direction Stiles could never have foreseen. “So do you truly think I’m hiding a tense knot of yearning in my soul?”

Stiles blinks. “What?”

“The book,” Jackson supplies.

Stiles eyes widen. “Oh!  No, no, no … you are not in the book.”

Knowing smiles circle the small platform, annoying Stiles. Malia snorts.  “Of course he is – we all are.  And, for the record, I am _not_ a virgin.  Just so you know.”

Jordan looks at the Beta and chuckles. “I found small bone fragments in the silt.  I’d guess _rana temporaria_.”

Stiles frowns, confused, so Jackson leans close to explain again. “Back to the real world now, out of the book.”

Stiles purses his lips wondering why people who understood linear thought and expression so well were so easily distracted by useless minutiae.

“Fine … so, frog bones?”

Jordan nods. “And some tiny gold links like from a fine chain.”

“You know,” Jackson says, musing over his sketchbook. “You really captured Hale perfectly. Buttoned down but exudes loads of hot Alpha sexual confidence … which I, for one, would love to tap.”

Stiles rolls his eyes at his friend who has a look of imagined rapture on his face. Malia’s lip curls in disgust.

“It’s not right somehow to discuss tapping asses in front of a soaker,” she observes.

Stiles holds up his hands. “I can’t bounce back and forth between my book and real life.  Since we’re stuck in real life, I suggest we stay there.”

Jordan smiles again and pulls up a display. “I haven’t analyzed whatever it was the victim was holding.  It looks like cellulose.”

“Paper?” Jackson asks.

Jordan nods. Stiles chews on his lower lip while he looks down at the skeleton.  “I found microscopic grit embedded in the skull fragments.  I’ll need you to identify those as well.” Jordan nods again.  Stiles looks over at Malia.  “Remove the remaining tissue.  I’ll debride the skull fragments myself, reassemble it so Jackson can put a face on our victim.”

“Excellent. I prefer digital images … they don’t stink,” the Omega comments.

As he walks off the platform, Stiles pauses beside Malia. “Ms. Tate, I don’t like those terms for human remains … ‘soaker’, ‘crispy critter’ … find more respectful terminology.”

“Yes, Dr. Stilinski.”

* * *

Stiles stares at the myriad pieces of the female victim’s skull. Where others only see shattered bits of bone, Stiles sees puzzle pieces that call out to him to make them whole again.  Even the smallest fragments tell him where they belong and as the night wears on, Stiles patiently and steadily finds how everything fits together until he finally has a complete skull sitting before him.  He turns it gently in his hands and applies the tissue markers for Jackson.  A yawn splits the Omega’s face and he lays his head down.  He falls asleep to thoughts of a woman’s imagined face and then a certain pair of green eyes. 

* * *

 

 Derek looks at his boss, Deputy Director Sam Cullen. He finds himself wanting to be successful in assuring Stiles a part in the case.  He knows the Omega is his best chance at solving the case.  And he can’t seem to stop thinking about long, graceful limbs and amber eyes.

“So, you guaranteed a squint a field role in an active murder investigation?” Cullen says.

“Yes, sir.”

“The one that wrote the book?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought you said he wouldn’t work with you anymore,” Cullen reminds Derek.

Derek nods. “Well, the last case that we worked, he provided a description of the murder weapon and the murderer but I didn’t give him much credence.”

“Why not?”

Derek shifts uncomfortably. “Because he did it by looking at the victim’s autopsy x-rays.”

Cullen snorts. “Well, I wouldn’t give it much credence either.”

“Turns out Stiles was right on both,” Derek says. “Plus, the pond victim?  Stiles gives me the victim’s age, sex and favorite sport.”

“Which is?”

“Tennis.”

Cullen raises an eyebrow. “He’s good.”

“No, he’s amazing. If the only way I can get him back on my side is to bring him out into the field?  I’m willing,” Derek states firmly.

“Fine,” Cullen agrees. “He’s on you.  Take a squint out in the field, he’s your responsibility.”

“Yes, sir.” Derek says happily, standing to leave.

Cullen stops him with a pointed look.

“Hale … make sure you’re doing this for the _case,”_ Cullen warns.  At Derek’s confused look, he adds, “I’m an Alpha and I’m not blind.”  He holds up Stiles’ file photo.  “Don’t let your knot get in the way of your job.  Am I clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”


End file.
